Cat
by Theater Raven
Summary: This is 'Cat', as in the singular for feline. Not the plural. Get it? Good. I don’t want any confusion. Now that we have that out of the way, I can tell my story." Otto, Andrew Lloyd Webber's cat, has come back from the dead to tell his side of things.


**Cat**

This is_ Cat_, as in the singular for feline. Not the plural. Get it? Good. I don't want any confusion. Now that we have that out of the way, I can tell my story.

My master's birthday has come upon us, once again. He's completely spoiling himself, once again. And I'm dead, for the first time in my existence. Nonetheless, in honor of this occasion, (my master's birthday, not my death) I've decided to inform you all what a kind, down-to-earth person my master really is. Really, I'd never seen a happier face. When I was brought home to Sydmonton, I found myself being treated like a king, so much so that I thought, _Simba, eat your heart out._

Things, for the first few months, worked out just fine. I found out that the man I was now to call "Master", "My Lord", "Sir", or any combination of the three, was a famous composer. He had written lots and lots of musicals. Some had accused him of musically cheating—that is, stealing his music from other sources, but I stuck by him all the while, defending him as much as any cat could. I familiarized myself with his work, as, before being owned by him, I had nothing better to do than to teach myself to read words and music and I took a particular liking to his _The Phantom of the Opera._

So, I read the original book by Gaston Leroux, and, when the house was quiet late at night, I watched the various films. I found I liked the original book better than Master's interpretation. I also learned that his newer shows hadn't been doing so well. This made me feel bad—a low supply of the green pieces of paper and metal discs Master called_ money_ always made him sad, and I didn't want my master to be sad, so I decided to figure out a way to help him, like any good little kitty would do. As luck would have it, a few weeks later, I got my chance.

Master had been talking to a man he kept calling Frederick about how they were going to make a sequel to_ The Phantom of the Opera_. I knew I must have heard incorrectly, as Erik, the Phantom, died after Christine left him in the book, so a sequel, technically, was next to impossible. However, Master's version had left the Phantom's fate as a slightly ambiguous matter, so, I supposed it could be possible. They said it was going to be based off a book Frederick had written called_ The Phantom of Manhattan_. I read it and nearly turned up the kitty chow I had eaten for breakfast that morning.

I will spare the reader of the details, yet all I can say is the book is awful, blasphemy against the original, even _if_ Master took some poetic license with that source, too. That night, I walked by my master and nuzzled him as he sat writing. He pushed me away.

"Not now, Otto, I'm working!"

I craned my neck to see what he was working on—the score for _The Phantom of Manhattan._ I pushed harder against his leg, meowing.

"Stop it!"

I dug my claws into his pants leg.

"Ow! Otto! What is it?"

I walked over to where all the posters from his shows are hanging on the wall. I tried my best to point at the one for _Phantom_, but it was hard to do since I didn't have any fingers. I jerked my head towards it. A smile crossed my master's face.

"Awww," he said in a you're-such-a-cute-kitty voice, "Does someone want to hear a song from_ Phantom_?"

I meowed what would roughly translate into human speech as an "Oy!" and leapt off the couch where I'd been sitting. I tried in many other ways to tell my master that his sequel was awful, especially with all the fan opposition I was reading about it online, but he wouldn't listen. Drastic times called for drastic measures.

I had to wait and bide my time, of course. The natural hunting instincts of the cat surged through me as I waited for just the right moment to strike. I watched that damn computer like a hawk, listened to my master tinkling out tunes, a calculator at his side. Every once in a while, he would count the notes he'd written, make some configurations on the calculator, and exclaim out a number of pounds. I took this to mean he was trying to calculate just exactly how much money the show would make him, note by note. One of the few admirable qualities about my master is that he is a very precise, meticulous person—even when he was getting "inspiration" from listening to another composer's work, he would listen to the same section of a piece over and over again and would carefully take notes on everything the section consisted of. I waited, and waited, and waited, feeling like the narrator of Poe's "The Tell Tale Heart", wondering exactly when my window of opportunity, when the vulture eye that infuriated me so much, would be carelessly left opened.

Then, my chance came. Master got up to go to the Little Billionaire's Room and I was left alone . . . with the computer. I strolled over to it nonchalantly, rubbing up against it, purring, as if to tell it that it had nothing to fear, little Otto just wanted to_ see_ it . . . Then, with a loud meow that could translate into "This is for Erik!", I leapt up onto the desk, stepping on the keys. I heard the distant sound of a toilet flushing and then, a horrified voice.

"Otto, no!"

I looked up at the screen with satisfaction. My "vulture eye" was gone. The beautiful sight of a clean, white background was all I saw. I purred happily, leapt of the desk, and went to go sun myself by the window in celebration. 

A few months later, I decided to go for a walk to ease my mind. I had been the talk of the musical theater world across the globe and all the cats in the neighborhood were after me—the local toms asking me how I was so brave, the females pratically throwing themselves at my paws—life was good. I was nearing a country road now. The sun was shining like dusty gold through the trees and the birds were singing. I listened to their sweet music, music that was better than anything Master could ever write. 

I closed my eyes to feel the warmth of the sun on my face. . . Oh, to think of all the happiness the stoppage of that horrific sequel had caused the world! Nature was rejoicing, and, I felt, as I walked down the path, that this performance of joy was for my own private viewing . . . I stepped out onto the dirt country road. Suddenly, the celebration was shattered in the screeching of tires, the birds' song now one of panicky warning, and I looked up. I was flung back by the impact of the car—I saw a white light, then, I crossed over.

So that, ladies and gentlemen, is what a kind person my master is—a man who will do anything for the green paper and metallic discs he calls money, one who perhaps once had the true vision of what it meant to be an artist, a servant of the muses, but lost it a long time ago when the tangible temptations of the world wove a curtain against the pure, divine inspiration. So do not pity the fact that I am gone. Rather, good people, do what you can to preserve my memory—stop the sequel; it was never meant to be—and do not mourn my death; rather, pity my master. That's all I ask of you.


End file.
